'The scream' by Thomas Tidholm

The scream

       All that’s alive has a scream. All that’s alive has a song

too. All that’s alive has a scream.

       All that’s alive has a scream, but it’s not certain that

it’s audible. In the cold spring it lies along the field like a

needle through everything. Then one sees it. And in summer out

in the open there can be screams in the grass, for there’s something

that just can’t stand it.

       Humans have screams.

       When a human allows her scream to be heard, one wonders: Where

did that scream come from? Where did she get it from? Just now she was

standing here brushing her hair. It didn’t look as if she was

thinking of screaming. It looked as if she was thinking of going out and

buying some food or flowers.

       But a scream came out.

       It was a very old scream.

       No one had heard it before. Others who had lived with her

for decades had never heard this scream before. It forced its way

out of her throat like a rusty harpoon. It smashed

a trinket with two cherubs and disappeared through

the open window.

       Afterwards she sat down at the table and ate fruit yoghurt.

She seemed spent but not subdued. Had she actually

heard it?

       We didn’t want to ask. We looked at each other in amazement but

couldn’t get ourselves to ask.